The rain blurred the edges of the dockyard, turning steel into shadow and blood into water.
Caden moved first—fast, arrogant, precise. His fist cracked against my ribs, right where the stitches pulled. Pain exploded through my side, but I didn't fall. I pivoted, ducked, and drove my elbow into his ribs with brutal precision. Caden staggered, coughing. This is for the child I'll never hold.
"You're slower than I remember," he taunted, circling me like a predator. "Bleeding already?"
The taunt fueled a cold fury that eclipsed the physical pain. Slower, perhaps, but not weaker. My breath hitched as I saw an opening, a fractional moment where his guard dipped as he tried to land another blow. I lunged, not with a clumsy swing, but with a calculated strike, aiming for his solar plexus. My fist connected, a solid thud that emptied the air from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, surprise flashing in his eyes. For Isabella, I thought, still and silent in a hospital bed.
